Breaking the Fourth Wall
by Sherlock'sScarf
Summary: Sherlock and John have to share a bed. Crack!meta!ficlet.


**Breaking the Fourth Wall**

A John/Sherlock crack!meta!ficlet

By Sherlock'sScarf

Author note and disclaimer: This is nothing but a silly crack romp. Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I'm borrowing them solely for the fun of poking fun at my favorite hobby, writing Sherlock/John slash.

For: Skyfullofstars

French translation available by the lovely Aeal: : / / www .fanfiction s/8722991/1/Breaking-the-Fourth-Wall-Briser-le-Quatri%C3%A8me-Mur

Traduction française par la belle Aeal: : / / www .fanfiction s/8722991/1/Breaking-the-Fourth-Wall-Briser-le-Quatri%C3%A8me-Mur

oOoOo

"I'm sorry, sir, but we only have one room left. It is a double room, though, if you don't mind sharing…?"

John sighed, but he had long since stopped worrying about propriety. Everyone assumed he and Sherlock were a couple, anyway. Sharing a hotel room in a remote town miles from London was hardly going to cause people to talk any more than they already did.

"We'll take the room."

oOoOo

After a comforting meal of shepherd's pie and an excellent dark lager in the nearby pub, John and Sherlock wearily climbed the stairs to the small double room at the end of the corridor. John fumbled tiredly for the room key in his pocket. After watching for a moment, Sherlock wordlessly reached over and took the key from John's fingers and fitted it into the lock. The door swung open to reveal a typical hotel room with dull white walls, worn carpet and a truly hideous, flowered duvet.

Sherlock glanced over the notice tacked on the back of the door. "Looks like checkout time is 10.00 a.m. That should give us a chance to get checked out in plenty of time to catch the 10.30 train back to London." He peeled off his coat, and reached to take the jacket John was holding out. He hung both coat and jacket on the hook mounted on the back of the door.

John shuffled over to the nearest side of the bed and sank, exhausted, to sit on the edge and toe his shoes off. With an effort, he hauled his oatmeal jumper over his head and dropped it onto the floor.

On the other side of the bed, Sherlock mirrored his actions, kicking off expensive Italian loafers and shrugging out of the aubergine silk shirt that he wore. Tossing it over the back of the wooden chair by the window, Sherlock stood just long enough to shuck off his grey trousers and fold them across the chair. Clad only in his black silk boxers, Sherlock pulled back the (_epically grotesque_) duvet and slid between the cold sheets.

Meanwhile, John had stripped down to his pants as well, and climbed under the covers as well. "Well, at least when you're under this travesty of a duvet, you can't see it."

Sherlock huffed out an amused laugh, then the two of them lay silently for a moment, enjoying the gradual warmth of shared body heat and insulation from the (_inexcusably ghastly_) duvet.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I can't sleep. I feel like…like I'm being watched."

"Watched?"

Yes, it's the strangest sensation – as though thousands of people, mostly women, are waiting to see what I do next."

John rolled onto his side, propping up on his elbow to look at Sherlock. "Well, you know what that feeling is from, don't you?"

"Where?"

"It's all of these fanfiction readers and writers. They're all watching us, obsessed with what might suddenly develop between us if we're ever suddenly forced to share a sleeping space."

"Are you serious? Don't they know that you're straight and I'm married to my work?"

"What can I say? Nobody can bend reality to suit their kinks like fans. And apparently what these people need is to see two hot guys get it on."

"_Two_ hot guys?" Sherlock smirked.

"Hey, watch it, mister – I'll have you know that people can't get enough of the cuddly little bantam-rooster type. And you, with the cheekbones and the hair and the swoopy coat, not to mention the Purple Shirt of Sex…"

"_Purple Shirt of Sex?"_ Sherlock spluttered.

Apparently that's what they call the shirt you just took off. The only thing they like more than that shirt is what's under it."

"I had no idea…" Sherlock said, faintly.

"Go to sleep, Sherlock. Try to forget about the fans and their expectations."

"I'll try. Good night, John."

"Good night, Sherlock."

oOoOo

"John?"

"_Yes,_ Sherlock?"

"Want to give them something to talk about?"

"Oh, God,_ yes."_

FIN.


End file.
